


Mrs. Santini: Match Maker

by WyrdSister



Category: Saturday Night Live, Saturday Night Live RPF, Weekend Update (SNL)
Genre: Drabble, In-Universe RPF, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-06-02 05:47:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6553423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WyrdSister/pseuds/WyrdSister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of Mrs. Santini's notes leads to certain revelations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mrs. Santini: Match Maker

**Author's Note:**

> I am literally so guilty about my RPF fanfic that I created a second AO3 account for it. SO... In my defense, I treat any people on a screen as characters separate from who they are in real life. I have the utmost respect for all cast members of SNL but I also have zero self-respect so here I am, shipping trash. Sorry.

“Jost!” Michael says, and, based on the way Colin scrambles upright at his desk, he’s been napping. Again. Michael narrows his eyes.

“Before you say anything,” Colin says, “I was just resting my eyes.”

“ _Right_ ,” Normally, Michael would needle him about it a little more, but at the moment, he’s got more pressing concerns; “You know, I got a note this morning from the mail cart --it’s from Mrs. Santini,” he says, strolling across the room. He stops at the desk, leaning against it and crossing his arms over his chest.

Colin blinks, pausing in the midst of reshuffling the papers in front of him. “Mrs. Santini,  my neighbor? _That_ Mrs. Santini?”

“Yes, Colin, _that_ Mrs. Santini. _Apparently,_ she thought it was necessary to send one of her notes to _me._ At the _office,_ Jost.” And, because Michael knows him, he waits a moment; sure enough, Colin's expression starts to change, his thoughts playing across his face in the furrowing of his brow and the twitch of his lips. Based on the way Colin's eyes begin to widen, Michael figures he's recollected the nature of Mrs. Santini’s little notes.

“Oh,” Colin says eventually. He picks up a pencil and taps the eraser against his desktop. “Uh, what'd she say?”

Michael leans in to properly loom over his co-anchor and reaches into his suit pocket to retrieve the note. It’s written on a piece of _Happy Kwanza!_ gift wrap, which he passes to Colin. Then, Michael waits for the impossible flurry of eyebrow raises and tiny frowns that are sure to pass over Colin’s face.

Curiously, however, none of that comes.

Instead, Michael observes as Colin’s eyes scan the note and his face drains over all color --admittedly, a difficult feat, and rather unexpected. Truthfully, Michael had been anticipating more of Colin’s usual blushing antics, followed by some sputtering. What he hadn’t expected was for Colin to go whiter than his usual, painfully translucent color. The wideness of Colin’s eyes is a little more predictable, but Michael feels a little bit taken aback when Colin turns those baby-blues on him and they seem to scream _GUILTY!_

He thinks back to the contents of the letter, trying to make some sense of this turn of events.

 _Dear Friend of Colin_ , the note had said in a surprisingly elegant scrawl, _So nice that you are thinking that Colin is needing help to find apartment. He is so, forgetful --always leaving shoes in hallway and asking me same questions like”Should I be buying flowers?” And also standing in middle of hallway and staring  at nothing after you are leaving. Thank you for making Colin human wall to walk around!_

It did seem innocent enough, if vaguely passive aggressive. “I was a little surprised Mrs. Santini went out of her way to come all the way to the office and drop the note in the mail cart, which I assume is what happened, since the note didn’t come in any sort of envelope.” Michael says.

“Um,” Colin responds, putting the note down on the table. His hand seems to shake as he pushes it to the side, and then he covers his face and slumps over his desk, making a small, whimpering noise.

“Colin?” Michael frowns, poking his shoulder.

Colin parts his fingers enough to look up through his hands at Michael, and he looks pained. He mumbles something.

“Speak up, man,”

“She…” Colin sits up, but doesn’t meet Michael’s eyes. “Mrs. Santini might think that… uh, she thinks that… that we’re um, dating.” He coughs on the last word, which is  why Michael doesn't really react right away. He’s not sure if he’s heard correctly.

“ _What_?” Michael yelps belatedly.

Colin’s cheeks are rapidly turning tomato-red and he’s staring at the edge of his desk. “Mrs. Santini thinks you’re my boyfriend,” he mumbles, just barely intelligible.

“How do you get _that_ from the _note_ ?” Michael says, stunned. Or more importantly, he thinks, _boyfriend_? Michael knows that Colin has a secret, wicked sense of humor, but he’s certain that anyone like Mrs. Santini would only know Colin for his charming, straight-laced image. Emphasis on  the _straight_.

Colin clears his throat and appears to get a hold of himself, his embarrassment finally receding. He stares up at Michael steadily. “You walk me home”

“--Yeah, it’s on my way!”

“--And I _do_ watch you go, to make sure the elevator doesn’t get stuck on you again,” Colin continues, “But mostly, Mrs. Santini thinks we’re dating because I might have asked her for advice a couple of times. Um, about how to ask you out.”

“What?” Michael says again, though it gets stuck in his throat and comes out in a hoarse whisper. His mouth suddenly feels dry as the pieces fall together in his head. It's a notion that seems ridiculous --not just the flowers or Colin asking his neighbors for advice, but the concept as a whole --the idea that Colin's been wanting to ask _him_ on a date. But he's got to _say_ something, so Michael settles on one of the many insane things about the whole situation to raise his eyebrows at. “ _Flowers_ , Colin?” He says, scoffing.

The nervous tension that had fallen over the room lightens up considerably at that and the corner of Colin’s mouth twitches. “Well, I didn’t do it, did I?” He says, casual even as his pencil tapping increases tenfold and he bites at his lower lip. “So…”

“Hold on -- _Mrs. Santini_?” Michael says,

“Hey!” But Colin's barely holding back his laughter now, and now his pencil tapping has stopped completely. “I originally asked _Leslie_ for advice, you know,”

“And I’m _sure_ I don’t want to know what she told you to do,” Michael decides. He leans in a little more, feeling a little jumpy and a little stupid, too. He’s thirty-two years old, for Christ’s sake. He really has no excuse for ‘beating around the bush’, as Colin would say. But then again, Colin hasn’t asked, and Michael was sure that he was straight, and...

“Let’s just say she suggested something along the lines of trapping you in the elevator to test out the waters,” Colin’s sheepish grin slips a little, then; “But, um, I didn’t think you’d appreciate any… advances.”

Michael kind of wants to hit his head against a desk. Instead, he just lets out a huge sigh; “Colin, you remember before _Weekend Update_ , back when we shared a cubicle with the rest of the staff writers?”

Colin tilts his head to side, rolling his gaze up to the ceiling for a moment like he actually needs to remember those years. “Yeah,” he says. “We didn’t get along at first,”

“Yeah, man, and do you remember why that was?”

“Because you teased me. And flicked crumpled up Post-It notes at my head to get my attention.” Colin says, making a face as he recalls it. “Which is still pretty childish, Che,”

“I was _messing_ with you, _Jost_ ,” Michael says, rolling his eyes. “Pulling your pigtails?”

Colin blinks, jaw slackening. “Wait… But you...” He shakes  his head, as if to shake off his daze and there’s a flicker of something mischievous in his eyes, the only warning sign Michael gets for what follows.

Which is: Colin grabs Michael by the lapels of his suit jacket and reels him in swiftly, pulling Michael off balance and pressing their mouths together.

There’s no fireworks, of course, but Colin’s lips are warm and dry against Michael’s and his mouth tastes like memory of cinnamon gum, which Michael knows Colin likes. Still, he’d kind of been expecting vanilla. The thought makes him laugh, and it breaks the kiss, though Michael doesn’t move too far from where he’s leaned over Colin, hands braced against the armrests on either side of his chair.

“What?” Colin says breathlessly. There’s a smile curving across his lips --one of those tiny Colin smirks that Michael has always sort of wanted to kiss away, and so he does.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> ????????  
>  i'm going to go slide back into the sewer whence i came now....


End file.
